


Latent

by WeAreJorus



Category: Divergent Series - Veronica Roth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 08:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3761113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeAreJorus/pseuds/WeAreJorus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My bedroom is neat, orderly, as I left it this morning. I lay on my side, turning my eyes to the small frame on the nightstand. A little over a year ago, Zeke’s mom found archived stills from old security footage, and in one, just one, a clear slide of Beatrice Prior, her hand held over the Dauntless bowl on Choosing Day. The day I met her. The day my world shifted. The day I felt… hope. My finger brushes the glass covering, over her determined face. “Good night, Tris,” I whisper, and close my eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Latent

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NOTE TO THE CREATOR

_Veronica Roth, you rock, you really do… but much of what you wrote after Divergent was as though book deadlines had you flying by the seat of your pants. That said, I hope you don’t mind if I play with your characters awhile. Fourtris deserves another chance._

 

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FOURWARD

_(see what I did there)_

The adventure begins where Allegiant ends... sort of. And as my father tells my mother at the start of every movie, please suspend your disbelief.

 

Reviews are not expected, but welcome... so long as you follow Thumper's advice.

 

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PROLOGUE

 

TOBIAS

Another sunset, the red sphere of life dipping into the waist-high grass, beyond the Amity fields, beyond the perimeter fence. One of the day’s last breezes rumbles past my ear as it wanders off to parts unknown to settle for the night. My breath mists into the chilly spring air.

About this time would have been patrol shift-change before… well, before. I used to come here then, just to look out at the world. It’s strange, these ideas we’ve all had at one time or another about what’s out there, and I sigh. How far removed those ideas are from reality. I’d be lying to myself if I said I never think about what might have been, if we hadn’t been so poisoned by this idea of Divergence. Would she still be here? Would she still have been special? Would she have chosen the same path? Chosen _me?_

I’d have chosen her. Knowing how things would be, how they would end, I’d still choose her. I’d have chosen her a thousand times. She was worth it.

I pull my legs up from where they dangle over the ledge and stand, leaning on the railing as the ambient glow ebbs from orange to purple. Another breeze ruffles my jacket. She would have enjoyed this; I would have liked to share this simple, peaceful moment with her. Perhaps I am, perhaps her ashes never touched down after their release, perhaps they’re here with me, swirling, as though she knows.

Perhaps she follows me home.

My mother left a meal on a covered plate, a meal that I eat methodically. I hear the floorboards creak as she moves around the spare bedroom. She turns in early, _down with the sunset_ , I said to her the first night after she arrived. Part of me thinks she does it to give me space. We still haven’t spent significant time together. I suppose we’re not ready for that yet.

She moves into her new apartment tomorrow. I’m not sure we’ll miss each other, but we’ll reconnect often enough.

It’s the darkness at the end of the day, the emptying of light from the sky that drags the intermittent sadness into the open. I _miss_ _her_. Not quite three years later, I still miss her deeply. My friendships have brought me out of the darkness, and once in a while I can feel a wisp of light from a distance, but it still eludes capture, or perhaps I’m no longer capable of embracing it. She was my light, and now, everything is dimmer. Enduring my tragic childhood again, if she were waiting at the end of it, would be worth the pain. As I shatter into dreamless sleep, my last thought is of her. Every night.

I swallow, the lump rises and threatens to dissolve. I engage in the distraction of washing my plate, in drying my hands, in pushing my chair into the table, in toeing off my boots by the door. A creak from the next room, footsteps padding closer, my mother’s face peeks around the corner.

“Was it okay?” she asks.

“The stew?” my voice trembles a bit, and I clear my throat. “Yeah, it was good. Thanks.”

She nods, her dark eyes holding me. It’s another several seconds before she speaks. “Rough day?”

I swallow. No use lying to my mother. “Yeah.”

She’s done this every evening, no matter which end of the spectrum I’ve landed in, and somehow, every night it surprises me. “Close your eyes.”

I pull air into my lungs, and slowly blow out, and then I comply. Warm arms come around my waist, thin hands on my back, and she pulls me in. Her touch, so far removed for so long, is still foreign, but not necessarily unwelcome. I’ve only cried once in front of her, on the second night. But every night after, the small comfort of being held has been sufficient to loosen the lump in my throat, to pull back the threat of tears and unknot my stomach. My arms lie still at my sides, unable to react, but I turn my cheek and rest it on the top of her head.

We do mend each other, every day. But as with a well-worn cloth, the mending holds only so long before needing another stitch.

“I’ll still be close by, after tonight,” she murmurs, pulling back and resting her palms on my face. “Sleep well, okay?”

I swallow. “You too.”

Her footsteps retreat, I check the front door lock out of habit and straighten my jacket on the back of a chair. My bedroom is neat, orderly, as I left it this morning. I lay on my side, turning my eyes to the small frame on the nightstand. A little over a year ago, Zeke’s mom found archived stills from old security footage, and in one, just one, a clear slide of Beatrice Prior, her hand held over the Dauntless bowl on Choosing Day.

The day I met her. The day my world shifted.

The day I felt… hope.

My finger brushes the glass covering, over her determined face. “Good night, Tris,” I whisper, and close my eyes.

_Good night, Tobias._

 

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Updates may not be at regular intervals. In fact, I can guarantee they won't be, and that's a good thing... when I do post another chapter, it'll be worth reading.


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